


Coffin Varnish

by JeanLuciferGohard



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Alcohol, Body Shots, F/M, Heavy Petting, Married Couple, a thirst fic in celebration of the soundtrack drop, just a good ol fashioned thirst trap over here, that's right; while y'all were studying the blade i wrote these old people doing body shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 00:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanLuciferGohard/pseuds/JeanLuciferGohard
Summary: Okay, here’s the skinny:She wasn’t his first, and He wasn’t hers, and maybe they were the firsts that mattered, the firsts that counted, but.Anyway, who’s counting?But maybe Persephone learned a trick or two in her day, and maybe Hades never could tell her 'no'.(or, "these old married people do bodyshots feat. heavy petting", that's it, that's the fic.)





	Coffin Varnish

**Author's Note:**

> "Coffin Varnish"  
> 1920s  
>  _slang_  
>  Strong liquor, often a home-brewed alcohol

Okay, here’s the skinny:

She wasn’t his first, and He wasn’t hers, and maybe they were the firsts that  _ mattered _ , the firsts that  _ counted,  _ but.

Anyway, who’s counting?

But the point is, really, that Persephone, she’d been enough of ‘around’, back when she was young, and he was young _ ish _ , and both of them prowling around the same dance halls like it meant something, that maybe a time or two, when everybody was drunk enough it seemed like it’d be a good idea, and somebody’d gotten the good stuff all the way up from south of the border, and weren’t those limes just goddamn  _ divine _ , that maybe, a time or two like that, when somebody was starting to lay themselves out on the bar, stretched-back throat and salted stomach, she would peel away from whichever dark-eyed pretty thing she was with that night, and sidle over to where he used to silently nurse his whiskey sours in the corner, and lean her shoulders in too close, and hope that he’d notice, and tilt her head sidelong over to where some nymph was sucking tequila off of swift-footed Achilles’ immaculate chest, and in her best purr, which, truth be told, wasn’t all that good yet, would say:

“Hey, stranger. You in on this?”

And Hades, he always said no.

Except for the once.

And  _ Lord _ , wasn’t that a time. Ages ago, though. Not that anybody’s counting, but hell, they ain’t as young as they used to be. 

(Perspehone ain’t, leastways. Himself, he’s always been old.)

But anyway, it ain’t a dance hall they’re holed up in now, it’s her husband’s very fine, very well-appointed office, with its very fine, very well-stocked liquor cabinet, and it’s just early enough in the Autumn and late enough at night that they’re mostways to comfortably buzzed, and nobody’s hauled off on anyone else yet.

Hades, with his throat thrown back like it only ever is when he’s a little bit drunk, a long pale stretch that might be the softest part of him, and that she’s maybe drunk enough to want to put her mouth on, knocks back what’s left of his lowball, and misses by a little. Not much, but enough that he swipes at the corner of his mouth with the edge of his hand to clean it up. He pauses. Mouths at the craggy knob of joint where his thumb meets his hand, and settles back with soft grunt, scotch-and-soda hanging loosely from between his fingertips, hand dangling over the arm of his chair.

There’s still the desk between them, as a sort of a precautionary measure, y’might say, and Persphone draws her knees up around her G&T, glass tucked into her chest, and can’t quite stop herself from smirking at him over it.

“Oh, I know that look,” he drawls lazily, and it’s good, it’s a good night, she can let herself enjoy how his voice breaks and scrapes all low and gravely, and he rolls his head back up to look her in the eye squarely, “What?”

“Nothing!”

Now, Perspehone, she don’t giggle, on account of a woman of her age don’t giggle. Be ridiculous. But she laughs, soft and low and a little drunk, ice chips clinking against the side of her glass, and she shakes her head and says:

“Just remembering.”

She was with--who was she with? Nierus? Musta been, and his hair was even longer than hers, curled like breakers off the coast, and it hung down so thick you couldn’t even see who he was tonguing liquor off of, and anyway she’d already left for the corner, and it was so hot that night that even Hades, sitting there, had his sleeves rolled up near to his shoulders, and a whole three buttons undone, so he might as well have been sitting there naked, and she’d sidled up, only blushing on account of the booze, honest, to ask if he was gonna go in on any of that action?

And he said no, like he always did, pushing the side of his glass into his neck like it could save him, and she, for once, didn’t let it go. She pursed her lips, even though most of her lipstick had already skipped town, and sorta half-whined, half-purred, “Aw, come on. It ain’t hard, I’ll show ya, c’mere.” Took his heavy, quartz-white hand, and the salt-shaker off the table, and the lime right out of his gimlet, and he let her. 

“You just,” she said, and his hand was enormous, and cracked, and he hissed a little through his teeth when she tapped the salt into his palm, but he let her do it, and she said, “then the lime,” and sucked it between her teeth, “and then,” and splashed the earthly remains of her late tequila over his hand, and bent low to lap the salt and trailing liquor spilling over his wrist, and he was so warm, and so still, barely even breathing. 

“See?” she hummed, “Easy.”

She’d said, “Now you try,” and stole a swallow of his gimlet, just a little coffin varnish, a little liquid courage, and she’d been about to give it back, but just then somebody’d come up behind her, and she’d swerved to dodge ‘em, arm flying up to keep it clear of the mess, only it spilled anyway, all down the collar of her dress, and for a second, just a second, after all that, he bent his head to the curve of her neck, eyes black like a hole punched through the entirety of the goddamn world, and mouthed so, so softly at whatever was left. 

Barely enough to count, truth be told, but then, who the hell’s counting?

Hades-then: still, and warm, like the air was still and warm, the kind of syrupy hot that makes you stupid as all get-out, like every dumb, summer-drunk impulse was just the best goddamn idea you ever had, and he looked a little bit like he had no idea how to exist in his own body, like he just woke up there one day, shanghaied into a shape he didn’t know.

Hades-now: sitting back into himself like a man who’s been living out of the same hotel-room of a skin for nigh-on forever, like it ain’t his place, but hell if he don’t know where everything is by now, and his eyes are a lazy, half-lidded, anthracite-black, watching his bare-armed wife unspool herself from her chair and her highball.

He stares, with a look so heavy and loaded it might as well be a gun, at the line of her breastbone, shiny with condensation where she’d kept her drink, tucked up into her cleavage like she used to keep her keys when they were both prowling around the same dance halls like it meant something.

The neckline of her nightgown hangs low, pools and drapes like spilled liquor down between her breasts, which is to say that it’s a good night, and what the hell is the point of a rich husband if you can’t have things like green charmeuse silk nightgowns that make your tits look nice, that you can ruin by stretching out the neck and maybe snagging a hole or two in because you know he’d get you a new one if you asked, even if you never would. It’s a good night. Persephone, she reckons she’s allowed to have some goddamn ideas once in a while.

There’s a crystal decanter on the edge of his desk, which is mostly for show but partly for him, and anyway the point is that it sure as hell ain’t for what she’s planning to do with it, which, if she’s honest, is at least half of the appeal. The other half is watching her round the corner of the desk, chasing the dregs of his scotch and very deliberately setting his glass down on the floor. The bulk of him breaks over the edge of his armrest like the Continental Shelf. Rolls back up like an earthquake, like he’s got any goddamn idea at all what he’s in for. Persephone smiles, feline and serene, like she’s got every cream-covered canary all coming home at once.

“Only said yes the once, didn’t ya? Never did tell me what finally made you cave.”

She crosses behind him. Skims her fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck, bristly, but softer then she ever expects it to be, and Hades, he’s a dog man, through and through, but he  _ purrs _ when she does, a low, impossibly pleased tomcat rumble when she drags her nails over his scalp. His eyes slip shut, and he stretches his neck back to meet her hand, drawling, “Well, you looked so put out.”

Doesn’t even notice her working at the buttons of his vest.

“Oh?” she purrs, and Persephone, she’s  _ much _ better at it now, “That’s all I gotta do?”

Vest off. Shirt open. Decanter in one hand, fistful of nightgown in the other.

(Anyway, the thing about green charmeuse silk nightgowns that make your tits look nice is that they ain’t exactly roomy, so she does have to hike the skirt up a fair ways to slide into his lap, silk settling  _ high _ over her hips, and it’s a  _ good night _ , they’re having a  _ good night _ , goddammit, and if that man says anything to ruin it now, she’s gonna snap his neck, hand to god.)

So Persephone pulls his head back down to stare her straight in the face, and gives him her very best pout, which, truth be told, she ain’t had much occasion to use in  _ years _ , but it’s all eyelashes and tucked chin, too obvious to be anything but a joke.

“Like this?” she says, and then, “Hold still.”

Time does leave its mark on a man, and what it left on Mr. Hades was mostly a pitted, toothy rake across the meat of his chest and shoulder. Can’t nobody hurt you like family can. Old enough now that the colour’s gone out of ‘em almost entirely, fresh enough that they always seem bigger than she remembers. Perspehone shoves his head to the side, and spills her husband’s very fine, very well-aged business whiskey down over his neck. It pools in the ragged seams of his scars. 

It’s a good night; Hades gasps, low and gut-punched at the first press of her mouth as she bends her head low to lap it up. His hands settle around her hips like he can’t stop them, and just one of his thighs is more than half the size of her whole goddamn waist and both of them are rigidly tense, straining to keep still. She pushes back off his chest, and it’s mean, she knows it’s mean, the way she’s rolling her hips down against the hard line of him without even edging close to anything that you might call satisfying. Just a tease. Just mean, and she knows it’s mean, which is why she’s doing it.

Persephone peels his hand from her hip, pushes the neck of the decanter into his palm.

“Your turn.”

For a long moment, he does nothing at all, just blinks at her stupidly. Just pants and rubs his thumb into her hipbone, neck shiny with alcohol and lipstick.

Then Hades swallows.

Then he closes his fingers around the decanter.

Then he  _ puts it back,  _ son of a  _ bitch, _ square to the edge of the desk that they were so careful to clear off to keep the night from being too much like work, and it was gonna be a  _ good _ night,  _ goddammit.  _ She’s gonna snap his neck, even curls her fists into his collar like she’s about to try. His eyes are all-pupil, black like they get when he  _ wants  _ something. Like he can’t quite tell if he’ll get it, if it’s real.

Like he’s only ever looked at her.

“If we’re doing this,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna see it done right.”

He hitches her legs higher over his belt, stands with a grunt. Lays her out on the mileage of his desk, and for a long moment, he just stands there, one hand curled around her thigh, the other adjusting the fan of her hair over the wood to his liking. Rocks himself against her, cards his fingers over and over through her curls like he could stay like that all night. Probably could, if she’d let him, and it ain’t that it’s not  _ good _ , he’s big, and warm in a way that’s almost always made her stupid as all get-out, and sure, there’s a luxury in just lying back and letting him pet at her, but it ain’t the point of the exercise. 

She digs her heel into the small of his back, insistent.

“Don’t tell me you forgot how,” she starts, only to be cut off by his mouth, sliding leisurely against her own. Scotch and soda. Gin and tonic. The rusty, salt-taste of him, and the greedy, adoring tug of his hand knotted in her hair and Hades pulls back from kissing her to fix her with a  _ look _ , and says:

“Lover, I will get to it,” he says, like he ain’t already reaching behind him, “when I’m good and ready.”

Like he ain’t already got his business-whiskey unstoppered, and like he ain’t already tugging her neckline down with two fingers and an appraising gleam in his eye.

“You’re gonna ruin it,” Persephone warns, and goddamn, don’t she just hope he does. It comes out a husky chuckle, miles from any real concern.

And Hades, his voice goes  _ low _ low, all the way down, dragged up from the pit of him, and he growls, “I’ll get you another one,” and she shivers, flinching up despite herself when the whiskey hits her skin, soaking into the silk. Shivers harder when her husband follows, mouthing over her neck and trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the line of her collarbone. She claws at the back of his neck, pulling him down to her while he drags his tongue high over the curve of her breast, and they  _ do _ look nice in this nightgown. She’s keeping it, even if it does stain. Hades turns his attentions to the other, sucking a dark bruise along the edge of it, just above her ribs, and her lips fly open on a ragged, ectastic “ _ fuck” _ .

Always easier like this, late-night, early autumn and a little coffin varnish to ease the way, get you out of your head enough to forget that wet charmeuse ain’t exactly comfortable. Enough to put a little colour in your cheeks, which is only partly the booze, and partly that her husband is taking some goddamn liberties, sliding his hands up her ribcage under the silk, and his palms rasp, but they’re always softer than she remembers, mapping out the shape of every single mark he’s left. 

Somewhere almost outside herself, Persephone can hear her own whining, breathy and too nasal to be anything but honest. She sounds little stupid, Persephone, always thought it sounded a little stupid when she wasn’t trying to make herself sound nice, but hell. Too old for that game anyhow, and anyhow it makes Hades chuckle low and rough into her neck, and he’s hard, but still just rocking against her with no particular urgency. Could tighten up, lock her thighs and push herself into his hips to speed things up, but it’d be mean.

So she does.

And  _ that’s _ good, ain’t that fine, and her head rolls with the sticky-slow  _ goodness _ of it, and ends up with her cheek pressed into a shadowy black stain in the wood. Can’t quite tell what it looks like from this angle, even if she was in full command of her faculties, but it is suddenly just the funniest goddamn thing. 

Perspehone laughs, “What  _ is  _ that?”, and Hades raises his craggy, wintry head from her neck with an aggrieved stare. 

“What’s  _ what? _ ” he groans, thumbing over her nipples as if it’d make her let it go, which it won’t, and he knows that, and even while she’s arching up into his hands, Perspehone gestures vaguely at the stain under her cheek.

“ _ That _ ,” and she gets the whole word out in one piece, even.

He stills.

“You don’t remember.” he rumbles, rolling up off of her, and Persephone maybe, maybe she panics a little that it’s all going south, and it was such a  _ good _ night, digs her knees into his sides like she’s about to beg him not to go, but instead he just laughs, from a hundred million miles down, and kisses her knee.

“ _ You _ did that. Musta been–hell, ages ago.”

His hand drags all the way down her side before closing over her ankle, stroking so, so softly over the bone, and murmuring into her leg:

“Knocked the inkwell over, and you told me it was my own goddamn fault for holin’ up in here in the first place.”

“Well,” she hums, easing back down, arms stretched up over her head, “I musta been right, then.”

Then, suddenly, incredulous, she says:

“You kept it?”

Now Hades, he don’t blush. Pour a hogshead of liquor down that man’s godly gullet and he will stay white as bone, white as stars and tungsten carbide. More apt to flee than flush. But his eyes drop, almost, if you could call a man like that bashful, almost bashful, and he stretches back over to slot his lips over hers like that could change the subject.

And hell, Persephone, she’ll let him.

It’s a good night.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://thefaustaesthetic.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/gin_n_chthonic) for a comprehensive ranking of Prohibition slang terms, and more soft marrieds.


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